Nick Carter: The Man From AXE
by Steely Gaze
Summary: Nick Carter, the American super-spy who "out Bonds James Bond" is back, and forced into early retirement after AXE disbands. But someone wants Carter dead, and Nick has to use all his old skills just to stay alive.


Nick Carter: The Man from AXE.

Chapter 1.

* * *

The man's name was Boris Palmer, although throughout his 42 years of life he had gone under a wide number of aliases, many of them while he worked in Europe, spying on various Soviet Bloc countries for a super-secret agency called AXE.

He was good at gathering information, and at keeping himself alive. So it was with some surprise that he found himself returning to his small brownstone in New York, hanging up his coat and trying to decide on what to eat for dinner, and instead discovering that someone had learned where he lived. And this same someone had learned about what he used to do, and Boris Palmer learned all this in the very short time it took for his mind to register the sight of a man with a silenced automatic in his living room.

And then he was dead. His cleaning lady found him lying on the rug in his living room, a look of astonishment on his pallid face, and a third, bloody, eye in his forehead.

And Boris Palmer was only the first. The next day another body was found, this time in San Francisco.

Her name had been Diane Goldstein, and she had been strangled brutally in her home while she worked in her private office. Her husband and teenage son heard nothing, and the police found no evidence. No fingerprints, no DNA, and no sign of forced entry.

That evening, another corpse turned up, this time in Delaware. His name had been Mick Stevens, and his car had been run off a bridge. The water hadn't killed him, but the bullet to the back of his head did. And the police had no idea who was behind the killing. And no one thought that the deaths of a real estate broker, a commercial pilot, and an auto mechanic were connected in any way.

But then again, no one knew that each of these dead individuals had worked, in some form, for a disbanded organization called AXE.

* * *

The sun was warm and I found myself drifting into a contented sleep. The sand beneath my back was soft, as was the nubile body of the redhead lying next to me.

Her name was Claire Donovan, and she was a private investigator. I'm serious. It had surprised me too when I learned about it the morning after we first made love. I guess I still thought of all private detectives as grizzled men with a whiskey addiction and a .45—men like Phillip Marlowe, Sam Spade, or even Mike Hammer. But those were the detectives of pulp fiction. Apparently, real private investigators wore bleached jeans, halter tops, and carried a 9mm in their battered handbags. At least, Claire did.

We had met in a smoky bar a couple of nights ago. She had just finished a case, some sort of marital infidelity, and I had just spent the last money I had on my beer. Work wasn't coming so hot for me lately, and even my job at a small construction firm had proved to be only temporary. At least I still had my beach house paid up until the end of the month, and then it was back into the smoggy gloom of Los Angles and goodbye Malibu beaches.

But until that time, I was determined to enjoy every minute I could. And Claire didn't seem to have any problems with my financial situation. She said she was just looking for something nice to tide her over with until her next case came along. It was nice to be considered nice by a lovely young lady, even if she was the sort of girl you didn't bring home to mother.

I was woken as the sun dipped lower in the western sky by Claire playfully nibbling on my earlobe. I smirked and rolled over towards her.

"What are you doing?"

"Telling you to feed me." She made it sound a lot dirtier than it actually was.

"Well since I'm flat broke, I guess it's back to my place for some spaghetti, done with my secret family recipe."

"Hmm? What's that again?"

"A secret," I reminded her with a kiss on her tender lips. "But maybe if you're really, really good to me, I could show you."

"Nah," Claire shrugged and climbed to her feet, readjusting her green bikini so it settled a little more decently over her trim buttocks. "Spaghetti's spaghetti, nothing much to it."

"Want to bet?" I asked, joining her on the walk back to my soon-to-be-vacated beach house.

We talked and laughed all the way there, and we enjoyed a hearty meal of spaghetti and hotdogs while the sun went down. Then we spent most of the night making love pretty wildly. Claire was practically insatiable, and I did everything in my power to keep up with her. I'm not a sex maniac, but I do consider myself somewhat accomplished in that regard, and yet she still kept me trying to find some hidden reserve of stamina to please her.

So by the time we finished, at about three in the morning, I was beat and ready for sleep. That, of course, was the cue for my cellphone to ring.

Grumbling I reached for it and took the call in the bathroom, so as not to disturb Claire; I didn't want her to wake up, hungry for more, and find me lacking in energy. I do have a reputation to maintain after all.

"Hello?" I wondered if it might be one of the prospective employers I had sent my, rather fictitious, resumé to, although the idea of one of them calling me at this hour was ridiculous. At least all of my references would check out. That was one thing good old Uncle Sam did for me after giving me the boot. Pity I didn't have any college experience, or even a varied job history, at least not in reality regardless of what the record supposedly showed. I couldn't very well list 'government sponsored assassin' as a job, now could I?

As luck would have it, the late night—or early morning—caller was not one of my prospective employers at all; he was a former employer.

"Nick, good to hear your voice again, son." David Hawk sounded as gruff as ever over the phone and I could just see him sitting in his chair, like a spider in the middle of a web, chewing one of his infernal cigars.

"Wish I could say the same, Hawk." I tried to keep the bitterness out of my voice, honest I did.

"Nick, I don't want to waste time here, so I'll cut to the chase." Hawk took a deep breath. "I want you to meet with me, now, as soon as you can get out here."

"What? To Washington?"

"No," and Hawk rattled off a familiar address in LA. It was the local FBI field office, one of the largest in the country.

"Fine," I said with a sigh. I owed the man this much. "I'll come in tomorrow, about nine, okay?"

"No," Hawk was adamant. "It has to be now. Nick, things have just gone to hell out here. I'm still trying to figure out who's alive and who's dead. It's a mess."

"Dead? What are you talking about?"

"Just come in, please. I don't want to read about you in the papers next."

Hawk never said please; something must have been seriously wrong. I agreed to meet him in twenty minutes at the most, then I got dressed and made a small pot of coffee to try and keep myself awake. And then I slipped out, not bothering to leave a note for Claire as I figured on being back way before she woke up. Then I took my car and drove through the thin, late-night traffic heading towards a meeting I didn't want to happen.

I hadn't seen Hawk since that last, painful, day at my old office. When I'd cleared out my desk, drew my last paycheck, and hit the road, ditching D.C. and trying to start a new life after AXE. What did my old boss want now?

* * *

The office was sparse but stylish, and the man sitting behind the glass-topped desk looked very much out of place.

David Hawk wore a tweed suit that looked even older than him, and that was saying something as he looked several years older than his actual age. But he was still a strong man, even at his age, and I knew he could probably take down anyone half his age. Apparently he had kept active since AXE was disbanded; the last I heard he had found a position with the Agency working on some of their more sensitive operations they had done over the past couple years. You know, the sort of stuff that didn't get reported on by the scandal-hungry media. The stuff that _worked_.

And, I noticed at once, he still had one of his damn cigars clenched between his teeth. Some things would never change. They'd have to bury him with that cigar in his mouth.

His expression on seeing me was expected, but still a little upsetting. He looked startled at my appearance, dressed in tan shorts and a navy blue tee-shirt with several holes around the shoulders. I suppose my unshaven face helped complete the picture that I was a bum. Oh Carter, how far we have fallen.

"Nick? Is that really you?" He sounded disbelieving but I knew he had recognized me at once.

"No, it's Robert De Niro. Of course it's me." I took a seat across from him without waiting for an invitation. "Now, no matter how much I'd love to sit and reminisce about old times, I don't think that's why you called me at three in the morning. At least, I hope not."

"Of course, you're right," Hawk reached out and shuffled some papers around on the desk. He didn't glance at them; he probably knew their contents by heart. "Nick, how long as AXE been gone now?" He didn't look at me when he asked.

"Four long years," I said, once more that morning trying to keep the bitterness out of my voice. I didn't do a better job this time, but who cares? AXE had been my life, and to have it ripped away by a Senate committee whose concern was government accountability was sickening to me. "I've kept a pretty accurate count over the countless jobs and shitholes I've lived in since then. I hear you've been doing okay for yourself, isn't that right? Working for the CIA now, aren't you?"

Hawk ignored the jibes; he was better man than that. "Nick," I noticed the frequent use of my first name, "we gave you all new identities after AXE was shut down. And they've served well, correct?"

"Well they've kept anyone from figuring out the government used to pay me to kill people, if that's what you mean. Otherwise those damn identities have proved to be about as useful as a condom made out of tissue paper. You know how hard it is to find work when your only real skill is ways to kill and destroy? I couldn't even join a military consulting outfit since none of the legit ones would take someone without any record of combat!"

"That's not important right now," Hawk said quietly, and I nearly stormed out of there right then. Not important? It was my life he was talking about! Only the knowledge that Hawk wasn't _that_ heartless kept me in my chair. He slid several pieces of paper across the desk to me and I picked them up.

"What are these?" I asked, my own voice lowering as I read through police reports, media information, and coroner reports. The names over each paper were familiar, and I felt a chill tickle my spine as I read them. I knew them, and I knew Hawk's answer before he told me.

"In the past five days, seven former AXE operatives have been murdered, each in a separate incident, and each with no evidence for the authorities. There was no connection between them anymore so the police in these states can't put two and two together, and I wouldn't have even known about this if it wasn't for Jenn Blackwood."

"What?" I put down the papers and stared up in worry. "These bastards didn't get to Jenn, did they?" I feared the answer.

"No, but they tried to." Hawk tossed away his cigar and sat back, looking me straight in the eye as he spoke. "She's working as a cop in Baltimore now, and just last night someone tried to blow her in half with a shotgun as she drove home. But the shooter didn't get her good enough and she managed to keep her car on the road and fire back with her sidearm. She got herself to the hospital with her guts hanging out and she's in intensive care right now. Doctors say she should make it through; she's a fighter, Nick. But she demanded to speak with me and I rushed over to see her.

"She's a suspicious one, and she didn't think it was any local hit so she asked me to check into it. I trust her instincts, so I did and that's when I found the others. I have men contacting the other AXE agents around the country, at least the ones that are still alive, and I came out here to get in touch with you before anyone else did."

"Thanks for the concern," I said, feeling both relieved and a little grateful but still retaining all my old sarcastic charm. "I can take care of myself, but thanks for the warning anyways." I tossed the papers onto the desk and got up. "Anything else or can I go?"

"I didn't just call you to make sure you were alright and to warn you, Nick." Hawk sounded slightly annoyed.

"Then what did you want?"

"Nick, in the old days, if someone took out one of us, we'd fight back. No one got away with stuff like this."

I reminded him, "But it's not the old days, and AXE is just a fading memory."

"Not to me," Hawk said with as much conviction as I had ever heard from him. He looked ready for a fight. "AXE was my baby, and I've never given up on her. Those pencil-pushing men from Washington can whine and complain all they want, and yes they can even force us to disband, but they can't take away what we are, you and me both Nick._We_ are AXE. And I'll be damned if I'll let anyone murder my people without giving them something else to think about." Hawk was fired up now, and no matter how much I hated to admit it, he was right. Even after all this time, I was still agent N3, a Killmaster for AXE. But I couldn't let myself go along with this without first really thinking about it.

"Hawk," I said, feeling more than a little uncomfortable, "what exactly are you saying?"

"I'm asking you to help me find out who is behind this and put them out of business for good."

"I thought so," I said almost under my breath. I was silent for several long moments, trying to get my jumbled and confused thoughts into a semblance of order; it wasn't possible here, not now and not with Hawk waiting for an answer. I'd need more time to think about it, and that in itself showed how much I had changed. There was a time when I wouldn't have hesitated to help get justice for my fallen allies.

"Look. Hawk, give me some time to think, okay? I'll get back to you with an answer before noon, I promise."

Hawk looked vaguely disappointed, but he nodded anyway and reached into a pocket and took out a pen he used on a sticky-note to write down a phone number. "Alright Nick," he said, handing me the small square of paper. "Once you make your decision, call me at this number. Any time of day or night, I'll pick up."

I nodded my thanks and bid Hawk goodbye, passing back through security and to my car.

I had a lot of time to think while driving back to my Malibu beach house, where Claire was waiting for me. What should I do? Ever since AXE was revealed to the public and officially disbanded, I had moved from job to job and state to state. Nothing seemed to stick with me anymore and over time I grew more resentful of my own government, which I had pledged so long ago to protect and serve to the best of my ability. Now I didn't know how I felt.

On the one hand, the idea of working for the government again, a government which I felt had betrayed my trust and left me out to dry, was repulsive. But Hawk was right; AXE may not have existed anymore, but I still did, and there was still a part of me, a large part actually, that felt the stirrings of patriotism and duty, both to my country and to my old friends.

Maybe it was all a lot simpler than it seemed. Sure, the government had screwed me, but my country still needed me, and so did my friends from AXE, who were being killed off one by one. Maybe I really had no choice. Who was it that said all we need to do to let evil win is for good men to do nothing? Could I really stand back and do nothing?

By the time I got back to my beach house, my head was throbbing with a headache from all the conflicting thoughts running through my head. Maybe Claire could help me deal with some of the stress I felt. The thought was certainly enough to make me smile.

I went inside quietly, not bothering to turn on any lights. I let my eyes get accustomed to the dark before making a beeline to the bedroom, passing through my overcrowded living room on the way.

I don't really know what made me pause at the closed door. It could have been some dormant danger sense from my AXE days kicking in. Or it could have been Hawk's warning making me feel a little more jumpy than usual. Either way, I stopped there and listened. And what I heard made my heart skip a beat and a sudden sweat break out on my forehead.

I could hear rough breathing just on the other side of the door, and it sure as hell wasn't Claire.

I stepped back and wished fervently that I had some of my old weapons on me, but my old Luger Wilhelmina and my stiletto Hugo were both boxed up in a closet in my bedroom, and going through there wasn't a smart idea at the moment. What else could I use as an effective weapon? The only knives I had were steak knives in the kitchen, and they wouldn't be much help against an attacker with a gun, but since they were all I had, I quickly returned to the dark kitchen and took one of the cheap knives out of a drawer.

I went back to my post at the bedroom door and paused, trying to think up a plan of attack. Then inspiration hit and I decided on what to do; it might work out fine, if there was only one guy in there. Anymore than that and I was in deep trouble.

I silently opened the porch door and then did the same with the front door, but this one I slammed shut as loudly as I could. Then I was moving fast, out the porch door and across the sand to the window facing into my bedroom. I had to stand on a battered old flower box to reach the high window, but my idea seemed to have worked flawlessly. I could see into the curtained room, and could see my bed across from the window, the closed door leading to the bathroom, and I could see the dark shadow of the man standing just to the right of the bedroom door. I was glad it was a cloudless night.

There was no nice way to do what had to be done next, since the window only opened from the inside. So I went in the loud way, jumping through the window with my elbows extended to protect my face from the flying shards of glass.

Don't let those movies fool you; jumping through windows hurts a lot more than it looks.

The shadowy figure spun quickly, a dark object in his hand. The object made a coughing sound and I felt a whisper of air pass by my cheek as I landed on the carpeted floor and rolled. Whatever he was packing, it had a suppressor on it. Nice and professional. But then again, so am I.

I rolled right pass the bed, the man firing another shot at me, and came up in front of the shadow. His reactions were a little on the slow side, and he was just turning his gun away from my former position at the window when I chopped viciously at his arm with the side of my hand. The blow must have hurt judging from the grunt he made, but I doubt it hurt as much as the knife I jammed up under his ribs and into a lung.

Steak knives aren't designed for fighting, but they're still knives and they still work wonders at cutting through human tissue to get at the vital organs below.

The guy was bigger than me by at least thirty pounds, and the hammer-like blow he swung at me head made stars explode before my vision and caused my knees to buckle. It had been a long time since I had been hit that hard.

But I hit back, and with a vengeance. My knee slammed into his groin, making him hiss with pain, and then as he tried once more to bring his gun into play, I grabbed his arm with my free hand and rammed it repeatedly into the wall. He still kept a tight hold on the gun; tight enough to accidentally pull the trigger and send a bullet into the far wall.

But though he was tough, he was still in a lot of pain from the knife I'd stuck in his chest, and that made him slower. I decided to capitalize on this by twisting the steak knife in him and yanking it out, making him gasp in pain.

I felt something hot and sticky run over my hand and I stabbed him again, lower this time, the knife cutting into his belly. He actually choked out a curse that time, and clubbed me again. The blow snapped my head back and made my front teeth cut through my lower lip, filling my mouth with the salty taste of my own blood, and it also made me weaken my grip on his gun arm, allowing him to push me aside and raise the silencer-tipped pistol.

But I wasn't out of the fight yet. I dropped into a crouch as his gun coughed again, the round zipping right over my head. Then my foot connected with his gut in a sharp kick that drove the steak knife even deeper. The pain from that made him drop the gun and reach for his stomach.

I quickly scooped up the abandoned automatic and got to my feet, aiming the pistol at the hunched-over shadow of my assailant. I wanted him alive if possible, so he could answer my questions. But he seemed to have a different idea as he wrenched the knife from his own belly and charged at me, brandishing the stubby knife like some sort of sword.

This was an unexpected move for me and I backed away defensively, which proved to be a mistake as he swiped and slashed open my left shoulder. I swore and continued moving backwards, trying to dodge his frantic attacks. He was obviously desperate and that made him foolish; but no less dangerous.

I moved back too far and tripped over Claire's handbag, falling to my backside on the carpet with the furious knife-wielding psychopath standing over me, about to finish the job. I didn't want to die, so I rolled across the floor as he thrust down at the space I had occupied a moment ago, and when I came to rest at the wall next to the bed, I shot him.

The guy seemed surprised to find a ragged hole at his neck, and seemed even more shocked to see his blood pumping out in hot jets that coated the wall in red. Slowly, the would-be killer slumped to his knees, bleeding to death from the knife and gunshot wounds.

I got to my feet, keeping my acquired weapon aimed squarely at the man's head, and walked over to him as he dropped the gory steak knife. I needed answers before he expired, and that meant I'd have to act fast.

"Who sent you?" I demanded, kneeling by the man and grabbing a handful of his hair to keep him upright. "Whoever it was, he sent you to die. Give him up, take him down too." I hoped this guy wasn't the loyal type, and I hoped he would be able to give me something, anything really, that I could use as a clue.

"C'mon! Stay with me." I shook him as his eyes closed and he opened them, looking glazed and confused. He smiled and opened his mouth, whether to speak or just to taunt me I'll never know, because all he managed was to cough up a stream of blood, and then die with a choking wheeze. I dropped the dead weight and tucked the gun into the waistband of my shorts.

That's when I remembered Claire. She had been sleeping when I left, and she hadn't moved or said anything during the fight. I automatically feared the worse and quickly moved over to the darkened bed, pushing aside the sheets gingerly. I swallowed as I saw the sight that lay under those thin sheets.

Claire Donovan would never solve another mystery in this life. Two bullets to the head while she was sleeping had ended her career with grim finality, and destroyed the beautiful face I had spent the last couple days admiring. She had just been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and she had the misfortune of knowing me. It seemed that even without AXE, people still wanted me dead, and that put everyone around me in mortal danger.

Someone had to pay. For Claire, for Jenn Blackwood, and for each of the former AXE members murdered in the past week. Whoever was behind this couldn't get away with it; I wouldn't let them.

Covering up Claire's remains, I flicked on a lamp and went through the murderer's pockets, not expecting to find anything of real value. And I was right. All I got were a pack of cheap cigarettes and a matchbook from the Imperious Casino. Maybe there was a clue there, but probably not. Either way, I couldn't identify the dead guy; he was in his 30s, brown hair, needed a shave, had a scar near his left ear, and had some pretty bad dental work. I'd have to leave him for someone else to ID.

Then I checked out his weapon of choice, a Smith & Wesson 9mm automatic with a fancy suppressor attached. Nothing special about it, although maybe the gun boys could figure something out. That is, if Hawk still had access to all his old avenues of investigation. Back in the day, it would be a piece of cake to do something like this, but if we were both working outside the wire, then we could be royally screwed.

Only one way to find out.

I picked up the phone in the living room and punched in the number Hawk had given me. He answered on the first ring.

"It's me," I said without preamble. "This line secure?"

"Yes, it's as secure as my old line."

"Good. I need a clean-up at my place—two dead bodies, a gun, and with any luck an identification. Can you do that?"

Hawk didn't even pause. "Right away. Any ideas at all on who the corpses are?"

"One was a friend, ended up as collateral damage," it hurt to talk about Claire like that, but I was in a hurry. "The other tried to do me in. He's white, male, and took some time to die. He was packing a silenced Smith & Wesson auto, which incidentally now has my fingerprints all over it. He managed to cut me a bit, but it's nothing serious. I can patch myself up in a minute and meet you wherever you want."

"Back at the office?"

"Works for me. You got a bathroom I can use there?"

"Sure, why?"

"I need a shave," I ran a hand over my bearded face. "You might also want to let the security boys know I'm coming in; I'll be carrying some old friends and I don't want to get stopped at the door."

"It'll be taken care of," Hawk assured me. "Thank God you're alright, Nick."

"Yeah, see you soon." I hung up, not feeling thankful but feeling angry. My life had been screwed up already, and now someone wanted to put an end to it. Well fine; I had played that game before, and I didn't play by any rules expect my own.

I went back into the bedroom, looking sadly at the covered lump that was Claire's body. And then I shut my mind to that and went about my business. First I got some bandages out of the bathroom and carefully bandaged up my cut shoulder. I kept the bindings tight, which was uncomfortable but still left my arm usable. And then I returned to the bedroom and took a box down from the top shelf in my small closet.

Inside, wrapped in oily rags to protect her, was my trusty Luger, Wilhelmina. I hadn't fired her in a long time, but her action seemed to work smoothly and I'd make sure to take some practice shots before I really needed to use her.

Also inside the box was a case of 9mm ammo for Wilhelmina and another old friend. Hugo, my stiletto, was wrapped in his chamois sheath. He was as sharp and deadly as ever, and I took him out and strapped him to my right forearm. It was funny how familiar it felt there, like a piece of my own body had been regrown.

Then, after taking some ammo for Wilhelmina, I quickly went through my closet and found a change of clothes. My nicest suit, a cheap brown affair I had bought back when I still had money, was the only thing I could think of to wear that wouldn't make me look like I needed a handout to survive. So I put it on, forgoing a tie, and made sure both of my weapons were secure in their holsters.

Nick Carter was back.


End file.
